


Of Glass and Lightning

by downpourcity



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 04:19:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10733994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downpourcity/pseuds/downpourcity
Summary: Angela Ziegler an Institute scientist, falls down the rabbit hole and wakes up in a world different than her own. Will she come out unscathed or be warped by the world above?





	Of Glass and Lightning

It started as a nice morning, one where a person could sit down, draw the partially destroyed blinds and look out the windows into the wastes. The sky was blue and cloudless as far as the eye could see. She wondered why she didn’t venture up here more often, the cold white walls of the institute grew too confining sometimes.

Angela Ziegler, Doctor and Scientist. Her great-great-great-great give or take some grandmother had grown up within what was once known as the CIT. The Commonwealth institute of Technology. Apparently, she had been a doctor too, studied in some place called “Switzerland.” Somehow through two-hundred years she had kept the accent, probably because she wanted to be different than the other lifeless members of the directorate.

She sighed, rifling through a box of old files, the synths nearby greeted her as they passed by the door. She was never truly alone, was she? The doctor sighed, flicking through multiple papers in hopes to find the one she needed. Sadly, it was to no avail. She walked from the room empty handed, carefully putting her hand to her watch.

“I am ready to relay bac— “A crashing sound echoed behind her, gunshots, lasershots, angry screaming. She slid into the room she was previously in, hiding behind an old bookcase for cover.

Synths died left and right, their parts flying everywhere as whomever attacked used over the top force. She slid a laser pistol from the holster under her lab coat. Carefully she brought it up, readying it to fire if she had to. Violence wasn’t her favorite blend of coffee.

“The boss sends scouts for a lousy full-of-herself doctor and we find nothing but talking toasters.” One grumbled, a few others followed in grumbling.  
  
“Silence.” One’s rough voice stood out from the rest of them, causing the bookcase to shake with the vibrations of his voice.

The group of ruffians quieted themselves. Horrific clattering and more grumbling followed as the place began to become even more disorganized than it already was. Papers, books, and anything not nailed to the floor went flying into the air. Why were they looking for her?  Maybe she could relay back in before they found her. She jammed the crown out, tweaking it to relay her in as quickly as possible. Nothing. An inward groan followed, almost becoming vocalized as she felt the bookcase being ripped back.

“I didn’t think bookcases could talk.” The man wore yellow armor, rust covered it, he missed an eye, and he smelled like a dying carcass. A raider.

The blunt end of something hit her head, and before she knew it she was sailing off to dreamland. Maybe this was why she didn’t go topside very often.

In her pained knockout state, she heard various voices. Some rough, some kind, others extremely foreign to her. Some sounded like they hailed from the Mexican wastes, others sounded from faraway lands that were only documented on old holotapes.

When she awoke, the world was draped in darkness, a piece of cloth was ripped away from her eyes and a singular woman stood before her.

She was tall, her hair was placed in a very neat pony tail that sat upon the top of her head, she wore a half mask made of crude metal and leather. Her eyes pierced through the darkness, yellow. She knew those eyes; it was hard to mistake them.

Angela’s heart skipped a beat, her body growing numb. She attempted to move, wanting so desperately to apologize to her, but alas, she was bound to the wall and gagged.

“Dr. Ziegler.” Her voice rose from the ground up, flowing like a brush across a canvas. “Institute Scientist.”

\--

Her brain rushed through ways that this woman could’ve broken free of the Institute, only to be rushed to the remembrance of a man. Years ago, a man named Gerard Lacroix had been found by synths and was to be replaced. His wife put up a fight, and thus she was stolen with him. Most of their kidnapped people would end up in two categories.

The first? You would die, brain scanned, memories stolen and then killed, wiped from the Earth. Two, the least likely? Given a residence, a new life underground, a chance to recreate what you lost up above. The catch? You would be experimented on.

Father had ordered her to take this couple on, stating that he had been watching them from afar for quite some time. She wondered why, and he told her that any information she wanted had to go through the Directorate. Stubbornly she did as she was told, talking to them a day later. Nothing. Nothing ever came from that.

Orders would come in on her terminal, she’d follow them as closely as she could without completely fulfilling them. She hated treating the people from above like animals, they never deserved such. The day when Father had told her she’d be evaluated was the day she’d regret.

Amelie. That was her name. Amelie. She was a sweet woman, who would go on about the books she found in an old library, talking about ballet and the land that her ancestors hailed from. That she had narrowly escaped the European wastes and drifted to the American Commonwealths.

At first she found her too dreamy and too illogical. It got on her nerves at times but then she began to realize that they both shared dreams, and that being dreamy was better than being logical all the time. She grew to love her, to cherish her. She convinced herself it was friendly or even as far away from love as an old-world patient/doctor relationship. But the pain that followed these orders, would convince her far otherwise.

They called it, **_Project Widowmaker._**

The goal of this project? To take the wife of Gerard Lacroix and turn her into their weapon. A human courser. To take a perfectly beautiful human being full of dreams, hopes and desires and crush her until she ticked backwards.

It was the first time the CIT had practiced psychological testing on anyone in over two-hundred-and-eleven years and Angela Ziegler was placed at the helm.

Did she regret it? Oh, yes, yes she did. Her love became twisted into sick fascination with experimentation, trying desperately to deceive herself into thinking that what she was doing would better everyone, even those above ground.

The tests and sessions began simple, so simple that it could fool anyone. They would sit her down in a comfortable room in someone’s own home unit and have a conversation. The conversation would be normal, but each sentence would contain a well-placed trigger word.  It made her feel sick at first, to invite her over for coffee and food supplements as if they were good friends.  But, as the tests progressed, she felt less and less bad. It became commonplace, almost… _routine._

Sometimes she would be awake at odd hours, wondering why Father had chosen her and not Gerard. She wondered why he chose the woman with dreams rather than the simple ex-minuteman gone farmhand.  It distressed her to no end.

The tests got worse, more violent, so terrifying that she refused to ever remember them enough to account for them happening. She was tortured, struck until she believed she was this fictitious creation, this _Widowmaker_. Then she was reset, like a machine, brought to be back to a scared small frail woman whose heart grew more and more scarce each session.

After the psychological tests, the Director ordered stranger operations to be done. Things that turned her stomach and made her body grow numb.

“Augment her.” He would say, staring at the blank terminal screen with the blinking green cursor. “Give her what capabilities a synth has but allow her to remain human. A cyborg, if you would.”

Before he had died, this wouldn’t have made sense. But a man with cancer wouldn’t want to chance a surgery that could kill him faster. He would take it out on a healthier younger woman without his ailments.

She gave her enhanced limbs, eyes, and a stimulate emitter that could be turned on and off at whim. They had her under their control.

Angela became a puppet master, turning her on and off and whim, until well, it all went wrong.

She would go on missions to recall synths. She would come home and be with her husband to love on him.

Soon enough her mind, as a human mind would, _broke_.

_She couldn’t forget that day._

Screaming was the first sign that something was wrong, blood curdling screaming and then eerie silence following. It came from the Lacroix residence. The one woman she wasn’t allowed to stop watching. She burst through the door with synths, the woman with yellow eyes on the floor covered in blood, huffing and shaking, her eyes wide with fear.

\--

Angela was shook from her thoughts, the woman with yellow eyes nearing her, bending down to meet her gaze.

“It’s funny isn’t it.” She began, kneeling before her. “You take me from my home, force me into a new way of life, turn me into your puppet and then break me. Now you’re here, taken away from your home, forced into a new way…” She paused, reaching behind her to unzip her shirt from her.

She let out a gasp, feeling her body start to shake like a leaf. The other’s cold hands undid the back of her uniform, stripping it from her until she was more vulnerable. Her chest was bare to the world, exposed, scars obvious across her neck and down to her stomach. Angela felt the woman’s lips meet her ear, her chest met with cold leather.

“…Of life.” She finished, smirking thinly at her. She tightened the straps around her wrists. “I won’t let you take anything else from me.” She moved to her neck, kissing it roughly before coming back to her ear slowly and quietly, her breath hot against her exposed skin. “You’re mine.”

“Boss, we have reports of synths seen in the outskirts of Nuka World, what should we do with em?” A man’s voice came from behind them.

Before she let go of the scientist, she took a bite at the edge of her ear, kissing her jawline as a way of parting. Her clothing was brought back up, “I don’t want _ma proie_ getting cold, now do I?”

Dread hit the pit of her stomach, dragging her down into the oceans of fear she once swam in before. She was hostage to an experiment gone wrong, stuck in an old amusement park full of raiders and now she was _this woman’s toy_.  Not to mention a horde of synths coming to retrieve her, no doubt.

Angela’s stomach twisted, limbs cried out in pain, and her wish to speak was overwhelming, but sometimes it was best to stay silent.

“Give them a good time, Gage.” She said calmly, her voice frozen. “And tell Sombra she can use her toys this time. I think she’ll like that.”

“Yes, Boss.” The man returned, clearly excited to see the outcome as if this was some twisted comic strip or radio drama.

Angela wiggled her wrists, trying to find give, nothing.

The man, Gage, left, her heart sunk. He was the only thing keeping her apart from her, the woman she had once loved. To her surprise, she was greeted with nothing more, just her piercing eyes staring into her soul.

A cold breeze hit her face, she squinted her eyes, the sound of rumbling hit the distance. It seemed to be a storm coming in, and not the fun kind.

Green hues danced into the clouds.

“Ah, my favorite.” Amelie, no, Widowmaker, cheered flatly, walking up to her again. “My dear, shall we leave? Or shall I draw the blinds and we can sit in darkness together?”

The cloth that prevented her from speaking was pried from her mouth, leaving her able to talk. Carefully she chose her next words, hoping to somehow reset this woman. “Recall Code: Talon-Seventy-Six.”

**_Nothing._ **

Laughter filled the room, overlaying with the distorted thunder. She could feel her skin starting to burn already. A series of loud metal clangs filled the room, the sensation stopped soon after. The lanterns eerily lit the space, but somewhat relaxed her from her previously tense position.

“You seem to have forgotten how awful you’ve treated me, Angela.”

\--

The woman had been thrown into an observation chamber after the murder. Angela had been tasked with watching her closely, writing down anything out of the ordinary. Father had been disappointed, but intrigued none the less.

Every day was a challenge to overcome, a puzzle to solve. She found herself disassociating Amelie as a human and seeing her as nothing more than a weapon of mass destruction, needing to be fine-tuned.

Her first mistake was never calling her by name, only by her designation. Widowmaker. It was as if the frail woman was shaped by this name, slowly taking on a persona day by day, forgetting the woman she was.

The day that she was found bleeding out on the floor was when Angela had realized she had gone too far. The woman had written things into her arm with shards of glass, things that were twisted.

“Araignée du soir, Cauchemar.”

It took her a long while to recognize what that meant, but when she did, her heart had all but broken. _What had she done?_ All it took was almost a year for her to figure out that what she had done was not okay at all. That what she was doing was inhumane, that she was… nothing but another institute scientist, bent on the destruction of the Commonwealth above.

They were both broken.

Both shells of their former selves.

Oh, how she wished she could go back and refuse to take on the project. How she wished she could take Amelie and run away from the Institute, from Kellogg, from Father.

Everything was broken. Nothing could be fixed in a world where everything was destroyed and put back together with wonderglue and scrap metal.

But maybe, just maybe, that would be… _okay._


End file.
